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Clint argues with himself the entire way to Steve’s apartment. Out loud.
“You barely even know him, Barton,” he mutters. “You saved the world together once and you weren’t even you for half of it. You’ve seen him maybe five times since then, and you’ve never made it past the small talk stage. What makes you think that you can ask him for a favor like this?”
He sighs and looks down at Lucky, who is trotting happily beside him on the sidewalk.
“Because you took on the responsibility of a dog, and responsible people get dogsitters when they go out of town,” he answers himself. “And responsible people with heavily-armed and pissed off enemies get dogsitters that have experience kicking bad guys’ heads in.”
Clint doesn’t bother wondering when and how his life got like this. That line of thinking never gets him anything but a headache. So he just continues on his way to Steve’s building, shivering in the freezing November air.
He has never actually been to Steve’s apartment before, but it's not hard to find the right number. He knocks on the door when he reaches it, but gets no response. He frowns, instincts prickling. Something doesn’t feel right.
On a hunch, he tries the door. It’s unlocked.
“Hey Steve, are you here?” Clint calls as he pushes his way hesitantly into the apartment. A book lies open on the kitchen table next to a half-drunk glass of milk, both of which suggest that Steve is still here. “You like dogs, right? Of course you do; who doesn’t like dogs? Uh, I’ve got a dog, and I kind of need someone to watch him for the week because I’ve got a mission, and I’ve kind of pissed off the entire Russian mob so I figured it was best to leave him with someone they wouldn’t mess with, and you and Stark are the only people I know in town who fit the bill and apparently Stark has a no-pets rule, so that’s out…Rogers? Are you here?”
Clint has walked through pretty much the entire apartment by now, but there has been no sign of Steve. The bedroom door is cracked open though, and as Clint draws closer, he can see a giant mound of blankets on the mattress on the floor that Steve must use as a bed. He hesitates. If Steve is sleeping, he definitely will not appreciate being woken up by a request for dogsitting. Then again, if Steve is sleeping, something is probably wrong, because it’s two in the afternoon and Steve usually only needs like four hours of sleep total.
Clint decides that it would make him a pretty crappy teammate if he didn’t at least check to make sure that Steve is still breathing, so he tells Lucky to stay and walks into the bedroom. His training allows him to walk silently across the carpeted floor to where Steve’s face is sticking out of the blankets, but when he gets close enough, he sees that his caution was unnecessary. Because yeah, Steve is breathing, but he sure as hell isn’t sleeping.
The captain’s eyes are wide, his pupils blown huge in what is unmistakably fear. He doesn’t seem to have noticed Clint at all, and his breath is coming in short, rapid gasps that can’t be healthy. Clint takes a quick glance at the room to see if there is anything to explain Steve’s terror, but there is nothing apparent.
“Steve?” he asks gently, putting his hand on the pile of blankets in what he hopes is the general vicinity of Steve’s shoulder. “You with me, buddy?”
He gets no response, not even a twitch. Even Steve’s eyes remain fixed and staring at nothing. Supersoldier or not, Clint is starting to seriously worry about him. He snakes a hand under the blankets to feel for Steve’s pulse, and when he finds it, his own begins to quicken. A heart rate that fast would kill a normal man in minutes. It might not be as dangerous for Steve, but there is no way it’s good.
“Steve?” he says more urgently, peeling away some of the blankets that Steve is cocooned in. “Come back to me, man.”
Clint is stunned by the sheer number of blankets that his teammate has managed to wrap around himself. As he pulls them away, he can feel the heat radiating from Steve, and wonders if he could be having some kind of fever-induced hallucination.
“I thought you weren’t supposed to get sick,” Clint mutters, more to himself than to Steve.
Suddenly he goes flying across the room, which he really was not expecting, and can’t say he appreciates. He slams into the door of Steve’s closet and slumps to the ground, momentarily stunned. He gets up slowly, rubbing the spot on his chest that feels like it just took a direct hit from a battering ram.
“If you wanted me to leave, you could’ve just asked,” he grumbles as he walks back to the bed and kneels beside it.
Steve is frantically pulling all of the blankets back around himself, and doesn’t even seem to be aware that he just threw his teammate across the room, or that said teammate is even in the room. Clint is starting to get seriously concerned now, because something is clearly very wrong with Steve. He doesn’t touch the blankets this time, but he does lean closer, listening to the words that Steve has started to mumble.
“Cold…freezing…ice everywhere…never be warm again…Peggy, it’s so cold and I can’t stop it.”
Jesus Christ.
Clint sits back on his heels, and now he feels cold too. Because he understands now, understands why Steve is practically catatonic.
“Shit,” he mumbles.
He grimaces and rubs a hand roughly over his face. Stark called the man Capsicle, and they all treated it like a joke. But Steve had been literally frozen solid for seventy fucking years. He’d thought that he was going to die in an artic wasteland and lie forever in a tomb of ice. If that isn’t enough to give someone a phobia, then Clint doesn’t know what is.
Even though he knows what the problem is now, Clint still feels helpless. Taking away Steve’s blankets obviously won’t help matters, but he can’t just let Steve boil himself. He decides to try talking again.
“Steve, it’s Clint. Clint Barton. You’re not there anymore, Steve. You’re not in the ice, and you’re not alone. You’re safe and warm. Can you hear me, Steve? I’m here, and you’re safe.”
Clint really hopes he’s not imagining the flicker of life that goes through Steve’s eyes at the sound of his voice. It’s something, but it’s not enough. Clint looks around, as if Steve’s bedroom will hold some kind of manual about what to do in situations like this. It doesn’t, unsurprisingly, but it does offer a clue about what set Steve off in the first place.
“Shit,” Clint says again, standing and walking over to the radiator in the corner of the room, which is suspiciously silent. He presses a hand to it, and though the dial is turned as high as it can go, the metal it is freezing, certainly not doing any kind of radiating. “Fucking cheap piece of crap.”
Clint knows this because he has the same kind of system. The difference being, of course, that Clint doesn’t slip into shock when his system craps out on occasion. Still, Clint knows the trick to fixing it, and it will only take a minute or two. He glances over at Steve, whose face is no longer visible, and fixes the heat faster than he has fixed anything in his life.
It still doesn’t feel like enough.
As soon as the radiator hums back to life, Clint returns to Steve’s side. Only his eyes and nose are exposed, but he still seems blind to his surroundings. He has started to shiver.
“I got your heat fixed, buddy,” Clint assures him. “It’ll be warm and toasty again in here before you know it.”
His words have no apparent effect, and Clint casts about for what to do next. Lucky whines from the doorway, and Clint snaps his fingers.
“Therapy dogs. Lots of places have therapy dogs. They help with all kinds of things, right?” He beckons to Lucky, and the dog trots to his side. “I know you’re more of a pizza dog, but do you think you can do some social work for me? Of course you can. Chicks dig you, so why not Captain America?”
Lucky wags his tail, which Clint takes as a promising sign. The dog begins to sniff at Steve’s face. Clint is hoping for a display of some kind of puppy affection or something, but Lucky just turns around again and sticks his tail in Steve’s face.
“Your manners suck,” Clint tells his dog.
Before he can try to think of anything else to do, he is startled by an incredibly loud sneeze. Apparently even some fancy serum can’t make you immune to having dog hair shoved up your nose. Clint tugs Lucky away from the bedside.
“Way to kick a guy while he’s down,” he mutters to the insolent animal. “See if I ever give you pizza again.”
“Clint?”
Clint freezes, looking back at the man in the bed. Steve’s eyes are blinking blearily, and he stares at his visitor in confusion. The confusion is so much better than the blank terror though, and Clint feels his face split into a relieved grin.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he says. “I’m right here. I fixed your heat.”
Steve frowns, and there is still something missing from his eyes, some part of him that is still trapped in the past.
“The ice,” he whispers. “It was everywhere.”
“Yeah, I know, buddy,” Clint says. He sighs, and then lets himself reach out to brush a sweat-damp lock of hair from Steve’s face. It’s not like Lucky is going to report him for being a sap, and if anyone needs the comfort of human touch, it’s Steve. “But it’s gone now. The ice is gone; you’re free from it. You’re safe. I’m not gonna let the ice get you again, Steve.”
A little more focus seeps into Steve’s eyes, and a hand snakes out from under the blanket to grasp Clint’s wrist.
“Clint?” he asks again, and his voice is stronger now.
“Still here,” Clint assures him. “Still not going anywhere.”
“You’re warm.”
“So are you. You’re warm, Steve, not cold. Check out all these awesome blankets. They’re keeping you warm. No ice in sight.”
“No ice,” Steve repeats.
“No ice.”
Steve stares at Clint for a long moment, and the panic slowly begins to fade from his expression. It is replaced by awareness though, and his already-flushed cheeks darken by a shade. He abruptly lets go of Clint’s wrist.
“Thank you,” he says, looking at the floor. “For fixing the heat. I’m fine now; you can go.”
Clint plunks his ass down on the carpet and crosses his arms. His legs too, for good measure.
“Like hell, Cap,” he says mildly.
Steve frowns, and the expression might have been more intimidating if it weren’t framed by a bunch of fluffy blankets, one of which is actually patterned with little copies of Steve’s shield. It’s also pink. Clint really hopes that one was a gift that Steve was just too polite to refuse.
“It’s no big deal,” Steve insists. “I can deal with it.”
“You look like you were sleeping in the middle of an entire town of blanket forts when a tornado hit,” Clint argues. “And I’m pretty sure you were about to have a heart attack. I’m not leaving, Steve.”
Steve sighs, but there is profound relief in his eyes that tells Clint he made the right call. Which is nice and all, but now Clint has no idea what to do next.
He looks at Lucky, who wags his tail again but seems to be out of ideas as well. They are both pretty far out of their elements. Clint has never been the person that people go to with problems like this, and since he has never experienced them himself, he's not sure how to proceed. And Lucky is a dog, which means that his experience in this regard is pretty limited too.
“Hey, Cap,” he says hesitantly. “I think it may be time to lose some of the blankets.”
Some of the panic returns to Steve’s face, and he shakes his head vehemently.
“Come on,” Clint wheedles. He tugs at the edge of the Captain America blanket. “At least let me get rid of this one.”
“Stark gave it to me,” Steve mumbles.
“Thank God,” says Clint. “I was afraid you’d bought it for yourself.”
Steve snorts, and since it’s the first sign of anything resembling amusement, Clint runs with it.
“I mean, come on,” he continues, gradually pulling the blanket away from Steve’s body. “The shields would be one thing, but the stars in the middle are hearts. Hearts, dude. Can you imagine running around and fighting bad guys with a shield that has a great big heart in the middle? I don’t think so. This is a blanket for a preadolescent girl, and I will not allow you the indignity of continuing to use it.”
Steve does not quite smile, but his face does become less pinched. Since he has made no move to stop him, Clint continues to slowly peel away the layers of blankets. He keeps up the steady stream of chatter to distract Steve.
“I mean, we’re on the same team now, so your reputation directly influences mine.”
“What reputation?” Steve asks, and now there is a definite smirk on his face, even if it’s faint.
“Really; that’s how this is gonna go?” Clint demands. “I’m hurt, Cap. I’ll have you know that my reputation is stellar. The people love me. I get autograph requests every time I go outside.”
“Must think you’re someone else.”
“Oh, nice.”
It's nice to know that Steve does have a sense of humor, even if he is not actually funny.
By this point, Clint has managed to get two more blankets off of Steve. The next one he touches is soaked in sweat. He grimaces, realizing just how long Steve has been in this state. The next order of business definitely needs to be getting him in the shower.
“And this blanket!” he exclaims as he reaches a new one. “This is the scratchiest blanket I have ever had the misfortune to encounter. Why do you even have a blanket like this?”
“It was in the closet when I moved in.”
Clint’s jaw falls open.
“And you kept it?” he demands. “Oh, dude. That is just wrong. I’m burning it.”
Steve glowers at him, but says nothing else. They are down to just one blanket now, and the captain is clearly aware of this. He squeezes his eyes shut as Clint grabs it by the edge.
“Hey.” Clint taps Steve’s cheek. “Keep your eyes open. Just look at me. I’m still here, and I’m still gonna be here when this blanket comes off, okay? You’re gonna be fine. The room is warm again, and I’m right here. Okay?”
Steve nods, and his eyes stay fixed on Clint’s face while the last blanket comes off and lands on the pile of sweaty fabric on the floor. His breathing starts to speed up and he curls in on himself, his eyes closing again. Clint grabs his shoulders.
“Steve, look at me,” he commands gently. “It’s not cold anymore, okay? You’re not cold; you’re not in the ice. You’re in your warm room, and I’m here with you, and everything is fine. Trust me, buddy. You’re safe.”
Steve’s eyes return to his, and his breathing slows again. He lifts a hand hesitantly, as if checking the temperature of the room. Since Clint is a master at temporarily fixing shitty radiators, the temperature is pretty close to volcanic. This finally seems to get through to Steve and he just lays back for a moment, staring at the ceiling and visibly pulling himself together.
Eventually, he sits up and rubs at his face.
“You good?” Clint asks, sitting back on his heels.
Steve lets out a slow breath and pushes back his sweaty hair.
“Getting there,” he says, and his voice is stronger than Clint has heard it that day.
Clint does not bother asking if there’s anything he can do. He has recognized Steve’s stubbornness by now, and knows that he won't ask for help. That doesn’t mean Clint won’t give it though.
“The water gonna bother you, or can you take a shower?” he asks.
“Water’s fine,” Steve answers quietly, looking embarrassed.
He doesn’t move though, so Clint stands up and goes to find the bathroom. He turns on the shower and waits until the water is steaming before he goes back to the bedroom, where he finds Steve standing beside the discarded pile of blankets, looking lost. Clint tugs him gently to the bathroom. He is grateful when Steve takes over from there, because helping Captain America shower would have been awkward in the extreme.
While Steve showers, Clint goes through the apartment and checks the temperature in each room. They are heating up nicely, but there is still a lingering chill from the hours that the heat had been off. Clint pulls out his phone and dials a number that he has only rarely had occasion to use.
“Is it an emergency?” Tony answers, sounding out of breath. Clint wonders what he’s doing, and then decides that he really doesn’t want to know.
“Yeah. Steve needs a new heating system in his apartment.”
“That’s an emergency?” Tony asks. He doesn't sound dismissive, just confused.
Clint sighs. He knows that Steve wouldn't want the other Avengers to know about his fear, and he is not about to expose him.
“Yeah Stark, it is,” he says. “Trust me. Can you have one installed that won’t crap out on him?”
There is a brief pause, and something crashes in the background.
“He’ll have a top-of-the-line system by tomorrow afternoon,” Tony promises. “You want one too?”
“Nah, I’ll be fine. Fixing mine gives me something to do.”
“Fair enough. Everything okay?”
“It will be. What about on your end? It sounds like something expensive just broke.”
“Let’s just say that a certain robot now has an appointment with a scrap heap. I should probably go put out that fire. Until next time, Hawkling.”
“See ya, Stark.”
Clint is left aimless again after he hangs up, so he wanders into the kitchen. Since he figures that eating Steve’s food won’t help matters, he turns to leave. Then inspiration strikes. He starts looking through the cabinets and gets momentarily sidetracked by how much junk food Steve has.
“Ever heard of a balanced diet?” Clint mutters as he shoves aside the third box of Cocoa Puffs.
Eventually though, he finds what he’s looking for and gets started on making what is sure to be the best cup of hot chocolate Steve will ever taste.
Steve takes such a long shower that Clint has time to not only make an entire saucepan full of hot chocolate, but also to get Netflix set up on Steve’s modest TV. He searches through the titles until he settles on the right one. And then he waits.
When Steve finally enters the living room, he's wearing two oversized sweatshirts, but displaying no other obvious signs of his earlier distress. If not for the fact that his eyes look even older than usual and his face is pinched in lines of shame and resignation, Clint might have thought that he had imagined the whole panic attack.
Steve does not quite look surprised that Clint is still there, but he doesn’t look all that thrilled about it either. Clint suspects he knows why, but he’s not going to address it yet.
“Sit,” he commands, patting the couch cushions beside him. “We’re having a movie night.” He checks his watch. “Well, movie afternoon.”
Steve doesn’t move.
“Look Barton, I appreciate your help earlier, but you don’t have to-”
“Sit.” Clint glowers until Steve just sighs and obeys.
“You know you don’t owe me anything, right?” he asks.
“Well, I was actually here to ask you a favor, so that might not be true.”
“What were you going to ask?”
“For you to look after my dog, Lucky. You met him earlier. In fact, you may still have some of his tail hair in your nasal passages.”
Steve rubs at his nose and almost smiles. As if he knows that they're talking about him, Lucky bounds into the room and charges at the couch. The traitorous creature jumps straight into Steve’s lap and starts nuzzling at his face. Steve actually laughs then, so Clint is willing to overlook Lucky’s infidelity.
When he is sure that Steve is not going to try to make an escape, Clint stands and heads to the kitchen, where he fills two mugs with his chocolatey creation. Steve really does look surprised when Clint walks back into the living room.
“You made hot chocolate?” he asks, accepting his mug as Clint sits beside him.
“It’s good for the soul,” Clint answers as he reaches for the remote. The opening credits of Aladdin begin to roll.
“Wow, this is amazing,” Steve says after a moment. Clint thinks that he's talking about the movie, until he looks over and sees Steve staring down at his mug, which Lucky is sniffing at curiously. “Is there peanut butter in this?”
“Along with cream, nutella, and a few other things that all add up to sheer awesome,” Clint tells him with no small amount of pride. Then something occurs to him. “Wait, you don’t have a nut allergy, do you?”
Steve smirks at him, and Clint realizes it was probably a stupid question.
“Not even before the serum,” Steve answers, sounding smug that there is at least one medical ailment that he managed to avoid. “There just weren’t that many people with allergies back then. Although even with that being true, I’m surprised I wasn’t one of the unlucky few.”
“Well, I guess the universe figured that luck had to be on your side at least once in your lifetime.”
“Maybe.” Steve looks doubtful, but he says nothing else.
They settle in to watch the movie. Steve gives Clint a Look when he realizes that it’s set in the desert. Or maybe that it’s a movie for kids. Clint just gives him an innocent smile. Since the movie is actually good, he doesn’t feel bad about it in the slightest.
Steve seems to grow more comfortable as the movie goes on, but as soon as the last of the credits have vanished from the screen, the silence between them turns awkward. Clint switches off the TV, and Steve clears his throat.
“Look, Clint-”
“Cap, if you feel like you owe me a thank-you or an explanation, save your breath,” Clint interrupts. Steve scowls, but he plows on. “You’ve been through shit that most people can barely imagine, and you just keep on keeping on. You may be superhuman, but it doesn’t mean you’re not still a person. You're allowed to break down every once in a while.”
Steve looks down at his hands and is silent for a long moment.
“It wasn’t just the plane crash and being buried in the ice for so long,” he says eventually, his voice low and his gaze unfocused. “I had issues with winter and the cold long before that. My mom got sick and died in the winter. I almost died every winter, because I always got sick. It got so that seeing the first frost on the windowpanes every year would give me an anxiety attack. And then after the serum, during the war…”
Steve sighs, his face lined with what Clint recognizes as grief.
“My best friend died the same winter I did, did you know that?”
“Bucky Barnes,” Clint says quietly, because of course he knows about Steve’s old partner. All of the Howling Commandos are famous, and none more so than Captain America’s second in command.
“Yeah. Bucky.” Steve’s fingers tighten around the empty mug that he is still holding, as if he can pull some vestiges of warmth from it. “It was so damn cold in those mountains, and I could never stop thinking about how he would’ve landed in ice and snow, how cold he must’ve been. I know he didn’t feel it,” he adds defensively, as if Clint had been questioning his sanity. “I know the impact killed him instantly. I just…he was always the one who helped me through the difficult winters, and when it was my turn, I let him down.”
Clint would argue with that if he thought it would do any good, but he is all too familiar with the kind of burden that Steve is carrying. Not to mention the fact that while the death of Sergeant Barnes is old news to the modern world, it happened less than a year ago for Steve. So he just keeps listening.
“So when I was in that plane, and I saw the ice coming up to meet me, it seemed fitting somehow,” Steve continues. “I mean, I was scared as hell, but I guess it just seemed like good closure. But then I actually hit the ice, and the cold…”
He trails off with a shudder, and Clint slings an arm around his shoulder. There’s nothing more to say, so he stays quiet. Steve leans into his side, and they just sit like that for a moment, taking comfort in each other’s presence.
“I’d be happy to look after your dog for you,” Steve says eventually.
“Oh, right,” says Clint, who had completely forgotten about the original purpose of his visit. “Thanks.”
And since he really does need to start prepping for his mission, he reluctantly gets to his feet. Steve gently nudges Lucky off his lap and stands as well to walk Clint to the door. He looks like he's thinking about saying something serious, but then seems to decide it isn’t necessary.
“Thanks for stopping by, Barton,” he says instead with a wry grin. “I don’t suppose you’d consider giving me that hot chocolate recipe?”
“A guy’s gotta have some secrets, Cap,” Clint grins back. “But I’d be happy to drop in again and make some more.”
Steve’s grin warms into a more genuine smile, and he shakes Clint’s hand.
“I’d like that, Clint.”
“You know what, Steve? I think I would too.”